by David Carter
‘Come on,’ grunted Vairs. ‘Let’s get inside. I’m freezing my nuts off out here.’
Walter jumped up the three stone stairs and rang the bell. A moment later a voice grunted, ‘Who is it?’
Walter and Vairs both recognised it was Johnny Meade, senior brother, and heir apparent to the Meade estate.
Walter said, ‘Police, Sergeant Vairs and DC Darriteau. We’ve come to update you on your brother’s murder inquiry.’
‘Have you got an appointment?’
Vairs stepped forward and glared at the speaker as if imagining Johnny Meade could see him.
‘Stop dicking about and open up! Or I’m turning on my heels and dropping this investigation to concentrate on something more important.’
It seemed to work. They heard him mutter, ‘Keep your hair on,’ as the door flipped open, and Vairs and Walter stepped into the black and white tiled hallway. A moment later, a striking young woman appeared.
‘Hello,’ she said, glancing at Vairs, but switching back to the young black guy. He was something else. She spoke in the sweetest of voices. ‘John says you’re investigating Grahame’s murder?’
‘That’s right,’ said Walter. ‘And you are?’
She smiled real nice.
‘I’m Caroline, I’m the youngest. Would you like to come up?’
‘Sure,’ said Walter, as Vairs suppressed a grin at Walter’s switched on flowery voice.
Caroline pointed up the staircase and they followed her up, Vairs admiring the rear zipper on her tight grey skirt. She opened the door to a large room at the front of the house. It was kitted out as some kind of home office with bookshelves, a couple of big desks, a new chunky white computer with a heavy square monitor, and a golf ball typewriter that neither of the officers missed.
Johnny Meade was sitting behind one desk, while the next son, Billy, stood at his shoulder, staring at the coppers, wondering what they had to say for themselves. Caroline joined the boys, making a pretty threesome, intent on hearing the update.
Vairs said, ‘Your father is out?’
‘Away on business,’ said Johnny.
Walter recognised a stock answer when he heard one, though give Vairs credit. He wasn’t about to let it go.
‘What? Out of town? Overseas? Whereabouts?’
Johnny said, ‘I thought you were here to update us on your inquiry into my brother’s vile murder.’
‘Yes, we are,’ said Vairs. ‘I was wondering if, through your extensive network of contacts, you might have heard anything further on who might be responsible.’
Johnny slapped the desk.
‘I’ve already told you who’s responsible. The bastard Banaghan gang. I would have thought that was obvious even to thick woodentops like you. And you say you’ve come here to update us, when in reality all you want is for us to do your bloody jobs for you.’
‘Not quite,’ said Vairs. ‘We have reports of two men entering Grahame’s flat, but they don’t fit the description of any of the Banaghan boys.’
Billy grimaced and said, ‘That’s because they wouldn’t do the job themselves, thicko! They’d dish it out to on-call hoodlums, or anyone who might do the job for a decent wedge.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Vairs, ‘but which hoodlums, which paid assassins?’
Billy shrugged, as Johnny said, ‘How the hell would we know? We don’t mix in those circles. That’s your job; you must have extensive lists of people who fit the bill.’
‘We do,’ agreed Vairs, ‘but we need a pointer. We can’t arrest people without due cause.’
‘Never stopped you in the past,’ muttered Billy.
Caroline stared at the officers and more at one than the other. Walter suppressed a smile, and looked back.
Vairs was talking again.
‘I just thought you might have something that could ease our inquiry forward a touch.’
Johnny exhaled hard. He’d heard his father do the self-same thing when things annoyed him. He shook his head and said, ‘Is this what we are paying our taxes for? For substandard idiots like you to bumble about in the dark? If there’s nothing more, Mr Vairs, I think you’d be better off back in the station, trawling through your records, until you come up with some faces that do fit. This interview’s over. Caroline, show them out.’
She went to the door and opened up. Vairs nodded and acted the part of the incompetent police officer particularly well. On the way downstairs, Caroline said, ‘You’ll have to forgive Johnny. He’s taken Grahame’s death real hard. He doesn’t mean to be so rude. But we’d like to see some tangible results.’
‘That’s understandable,’ said Walter. ‘We’ll do our best. You can be sure of that, Miss Meade.’
‘Thanks,’ said Caroline, smiling at Walter. ‘I’m sure you will. Call again, won’t you, perhaps when you’ve something more positive to say?’
‘Yes,’ said Walter. ‘We will.’
Minutes later, Billy went down to the door to make sure they’d gone and everything was secure.
BACK IN THE CAR, VAIRS chuckled like a mad clown. Walter glanced across at him and said, ‘What did you make of that, sarge?’
‘Bingo!’ he said. ‘We’re in.’
‘Eh? I’m not with you. How do you make that out?’
‘The bird, of course. Fancied the pants off you. She must be as blind as a bat, but never mind. It takes all sorts. Surely you noticed that, ya wazzock. You’re in there, man, and no mistake, and we’re going to play it for all its worth.’
‘Get off, sarge, she’s only a kid, jailbait, as they say.’
‘No! When we get back to the station you’re going to find out all about her. How old she is, where she goes, where she works, who her friends are, and if she’s still at school, which I doubt, you find out where. And while you’re doing all that, come up with a plan of how and where you can bump into her, so to speak.’
‘It ain’t going to work, sarge.’
‘It bloody is!’ insisted Vairs, and he fell into mimic mode, copying Walter’s flowery voice: That’s understandable. We’ll do our best. You can be sure of that, Miss Meade, three bags full, Miss Meade!’ and he laughed hideously.
Walter grinned and shook his head, started the Sierra, and headed back toward the station. One thing was true. She was an incredibly beautiful girl.
Twenty-Five
On the Sunday, in the Banaghan family mansion in Saint Patrick’s, Liam Banaghan was questioning his son Eamonn on his progress with the Meade girl. He’d placed a set of keys on the desk and was about to reveal his plan.
‘Your job is to get her up the duff. Either that, or an engagement ring on her finger. Can you imagine how furious that prick Meade will be when he hears his daughter is pregnant by a Banaghan boy? Think how he’ll feel when he sees one of his brood being removed from his family and transplanted into ours?’
Liam grinned, rubbed his big hands together, and continued.
‘I reckon it might break him when we dismantle that family. And as for the sour-faced Cynthia, how will she live it down at the wedding? Losing one of her daughters to the Banaghans. Yes, they’ll grin and spout platitudes, but beneath it all they will be spitting tacks!’
‘I can see the benefits,’ agreed Eamonn, smirking at his red-faced dad.
‘And you’ve no problem with... you know, doing the business?’
‘Course not, dad, she’s a pretty kid, though marrying her might be a step too far.’
Liam held his huge hand up and said, ‘Whatever you say, son. You could always marry her and shovel her to one side and have who the hell you want. You know my thoughts on that, up the duff or engagement ring, you decide. Both serve our purpose equally well.’
‘Thanks, dad, I’ll give it some thought.’
‘And there’s a little bonus in it for you, too.’
‘Dare I ask what?’
‘The flat, of course. I’ll give you three months to pull it off, so to speak. Do the business and the flat’s yours to keep forev
er.’
‘Really? That’s dead generous, dad.’
‘It bloody is! Cost me almost eighty-five grand. But there we are, that’s the deal. Any questions?’
Eamonn pulled a face and said, ‘Nope, I think that’s clear enough.’
‘Good boy, you get to it, get on with it, and keep me fed with information on progress, yeah?’
‘Of course, dad. Sure. You can count on me.’
Liam Banaghan sat back in his chair and looked happy enough. He brought his hand up, index finger pointing in Eamonn’s vague direction, a digit he began swirling in a circle as he said, ‘And all this remains a closely guarded secret between the two of us, yeah? We keep everything under wraps until we know where we stand. You don’t mention a word to your brothers and sisters, or anyone else, and especially not to your mother.’
‘Of course not. Understood.’
‘Good! That’s the way, keep your lips sealed and your zipper open,’ and Liam laughed, nodded towards the door and said, ‘That’s it, son, you get along, a great lunch coming up in twenty,’ as he glanced at his Rolex.
Eamonn stood up, nodded at his father, and said, ‘Thanks, dad,’ and started for the door.
‘Oh, and Eamonn?’
The boy glanced back.
‘Take the bloody keys, boy.’
‘Ah yes, sorry,’ and he grabbed the fob and bobbed his head and was out of there, for his dad could still frighten a twenty-three-year-old like him.
MORE THAN AN HOUR LATER in the Meade’s Mayfair mansion, lunch was almost over. Howard Meade rubbed his mouth on the pristine linen and said, ‘You’ll have to excuse me for ten minutes. I need to make an urgent phone call,’ as he stood and glanced at his fine family.
‘Do you have to do that now?’ moaned Cynthia, her creased forehead staring down the table.
‘Yes, sorry darling, must be done,’ and he made his way towards the door.
After he’d gone, Cynthia muttered, ‘That’s odd, he’s never done anything like that before. Sunday lunches are sacrosanct.’
None of the family seemed concerned. More than one of the kids imagined there might have been a marital tiff between their parents, and this was the latest manifestation of it. Those differences of opinion had happened increasingly often over the past year, and some of the children speculated that dad was growing tired of her. Maybe his eyes had alighted on one of the sparkly young faces flaunting themselves in one of Meade’s upmarket clubs.
Outside, Howard eschewed the newly installed lift and jogged up the two flights of stairs to his office. Went inside, closed the door behind him and sat down, happy to note he wasn’t breathing hard, a testament to his ongoing fitness regime.
He picked up the red phone, flipped open his large alphabetical paged notebook, looking for B for Banaghan, and there it was, the number to the hideous church-like property not far away.
He dialled the number, the phone purring aloud. He preferred the circular dial with its comforting tone to the slap bang, thank you ma’am new fangled bang in digit affairs that were everywhere. The call was answered after four rings.
‘Good afternoon, the Banaghan residence.’
‘I’d like to speak to Mr Banaghan Senior.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir, he’s at lunch and is not to be disturbed.’
‘It’s Howard Meade speaking, he’ll speak to me.’
‘I don’t think so, sir. I am under strict instructions not to put through any calls.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Mrs Fitzpatrick, sir.’
‘And do you know who I am, Mrs Fitzpatrick?’
‘I think so, sir, yes.’
‘Then you will know that I am not a man to be trifled with. Be a good girl and run along and get Banaghan to the freaking phone, like now, before I send someone over there to rip your bloody head off.’
Mrs Fitzpatrick’s heart skipped a beat and went into palpitation mode. She was short of breath and didn’t know what to say, managing a brief, ‘Wait there,’ as she set the phone down and made her way towards the closed dining room. She tapped on the door and without waiting, opened up and went inside.
‘What is it, Mrs F?’ said Liam, feeling jolly through a cracking couple of bottles of Beaujolais that complemented the meat. ‘You know you are not supposed to interrupt us at Sunday lunch. It’s a capital offence,’ and he laughed like a crazy Santa.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I have a gentleman on the phone who insists on speaking to you.’
‘No, no, Mrs F, no calls during lunch. I’m surprised at you. You know the rules, smack on the hand for suggesting such a thing.’
‘But it’s Howard Meade, sir.’
What little eating and drinking still going on came to an abrupt halt. Everyone stared at Liam.
‘Howard Meade is ringing here?’
‘Yes sir, so he says... unless it’s a prank.’
‘If it is a prank, I’ll find out who it is and make sure they are taught a lesson that will last twenty years. No one rings Liam Banaghan during his Sunday lunch and gets away with it.’
‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t know what to do for the best.’
Liam stood up, wiped his mouth, and hustled towards the door.
Rosanna said, ‘What could he want at this time of day?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Liam, ‘But he’ll pay for this,’ as he disappeared along the corridor, Mrs Fitzpatrick scurrying to keep up.
‘You can leave it to me, Mrs F. We’ll speak later about this business,’ as he waved her away and entered his office, saw the phone waiting there off the hook, and grabbed it and sat down.
‘Meade?’
‘Mr Meade to you.’
‘In your bloody dreams! What the hell are you doing ringing me at home, disturbing my lunch?’
‘I have some big news for you, Banners.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘As I said, news, and this is the headline variety.’
‘You’re not making any sense. Been on the loony juice, have we?’
‘It will in a second, pal. Pull your fat lugs back and listen.’
‘Don’t you speak to me like that!’
‘Get over yourself. I want you to know that we have scored.’
‘Are you on the coke?’
‘You took one of ours, Banaghan, and now we have replied with a goal of our own. The score’s now one-all.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about!’
‘You always were a little slow on the uptake. Your Irish heritage, I reckon. Would you like me to repeat it?’
The cogs in Liam’s brain were battling the Beaujolais Nouveau, crunching into place. ‘Eilish?’ he said, his mind visiting places it didn’t want to go.
‘The penny’s dropped at last. Whoopee for you!’
‘If you have touched a hair on her head, I shall make it my business to kill all your children; and that ugly bitch of a wife of yours for good measure!’
‘You haven’t heard the best part.’
Banaghan paused and thought, and wondered what was coming next. He so wanted to yell and tell the guy to bugger off, to smash the phone down. But he wanted most of all to hear what the clown had to say.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Enjoy your lunch, pal?’
‘What about my lunch?’
‘Nice joint of veal, I believe. We had the same thing here... except it wasn’t veal.’
‘Eh? What? You can’t mean...’
‘Yes, I was always brought up to believe that female meat produced the more tender cuts. I mean, who’d want an old capon when one could have a sweet chick? Goes the same for beef... and people, too.’
Banaghan gagged. He couldn’t stop himself vomiting into the large metal waste bin. Howard Meade was happy to hear it and wait for him. When he had the upper hand, it was always best to rub the opposition’s nose right in it.
Banaghan returned, whispering, trying hard to control hi
mself.
‘If you’ve hurt my Eilish, I will come for you, Meade, and when I find you, I will dissect you limb from limb, using my new set of craft knives, and while I do that, I’ll feed the portions to my Alsatian, Joey, with what’s left of you, standing by, watching on.’
‘Oh, Banaghan, I don’t think so. Accept defeat gracefully for once in your life. Your mob took our Grahame when our guard and his guard were down and congratulations to you for that. You caught us with our pants down, and we are evening things up. You can continue in the same vein, but be aware of this. Whatever you throw at us you’ll get back tenfold, and down that road lies madness, a constant stream of family funerals. Do you want that, Banaghan? Oh, and by the way, there’s a little veal left over at this end. I’m saving it for a sandwich for supper, with a dash of English mustard. Can you imagine?’
‘You’re insane, Meade, you’ve just signed your death warrant.’
‘Talk is cheap, Banaghan, I’ll leave it there for now,’ and Howard slipped the phone back on the hook with a satisfied look on his face, did a silly dance on the spot, and made his way downstairs to advise his family of his success in evening-up the score.
Banaghan’s phone rang again. He imagined Meade had something he wanted to add.
He snatched it up, yelling, ‘What?’
‘Oh, sorry to bother you,’ said Toby Seaton-May, glancing at the handset for a second at the abruptness of the welcome.
‘What do you want?’
‘I was enquiring about Eilish. She was coming to the Hall for the weekend and never arrived. I was just asking after her health. Is she okay? Maybe I could have a quick word.’
‘Bugger off!’ and the phone went down so hard it cracked in half.
Banaghan sat there for a full minute, mulling things over. Could Meade be playing some kind of sick joke? And that veal, where had it come from, who had ordered it, and was it veal? He needed to speak to Rosanna.
She was still at the end of the table when he poked his head round the door. Everyone gaped at him, wondering what was going on. Every vestige of colour had drained from his face.
